


The Prince and His Knight

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Community: smut_fest, Historical, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for the following prompt: Two kingdoms have made peace and this is to be sealed by a royal marriage. While travelling to the princess' realm, the prince falls in love with his travelling companion. There will be bloody consequences if he does not go through with the wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince and His Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://smut-fest.livejournal.com/31289.html>  
> Mirrored here: <http://smut-fest.dreamwidth.org/29712.html>

As we join them, the Prince and his retinue are travelling through a lush countryside, with newly-planted fields lying alongside the road and copses of trees dotted over the horizon. Seen from above, this band of travellers has the appearance of a shining serpent or a long, winding worm as their group is large enough that the head and the tail of it are almost half a mile apart.  
  
At the front of the retinue ride the Prince's armed guards, their helmets and breastplates shining in the sun. There then follow attendants, retainers and servants, with the most lowly left to walk on their own two feet. The rear is brought up by several carts, pulled by asses, with page boys running between them.  
  
Just behind the guards, and with the rest of the party keeping a respectful distance, ride the Prince and his Knight.  
  
The Prince's horse steps prettily. A grey mare, sleek as a swan and dainty as a kitten; it mouths at the bit between its teeth, nostrils flared and the bells on its reins jangling.  
  
In contrast, the horse belonging to the newly appointed Knight of the Third Chamber is a thick, sure-footed thing, brown flanks shining in the morning light and bobtail twitching. Indeed, the difference between the two horses is almost as stark as the difference between the two riders themselves.  
  
Take Sir Willem de Witberg, for that is the Knight's name: he appears as sober and practical as a man may be while still being a member of the court of Isseland. He is dressed appropriately for their journey, which he knows will take in several days' riding across a battered and war-torn terrain. His coat is as brown and as sturdy as his boots and is broken only by the yellow of his waistcoat. Atop his head is a wide-brimmed hat to keep off the sun, and his dark hair falls to his shoulders for the same purpose. Staring ahead at the guards in front of them, he presses his lips together.  
  
Prince Tomas, however, being the Duke of Kirkhoven, the second son of King Johan of Isseland, and thus needing no introduction, sits adorned in so much finery that he resembles the hip of a rose, swathed amongst its many petals.  
  
The Prince's breeches and boots, while being made of fine cordwain leather, are nonetheless plain, but that is where all plainness ends. His coat is a work of brilliant blue silk studded with gold embroidery, and his waistcoat is more brilliant and more blue still. The lace at his cuffs balloons out of his sleeves in white swathes and the lace at his throat cascades from beneath a bright red bow. The Prince's hat, like his companion's, is wide-brimmed, but that brim is turned up at one side and above it prances a large, red feather. Beneath the hat, the Prince's hair falls thickly in brown curls that tumble down over his shoulders in a manner so lush and so full that they hardly appear to be real, as indeed they are not. Unlike Sir Willem, Prince Tomas doesn't look in front of him, but instead he stares out to the side, watching the large, flat fields as they pass.  
  
It has been two hours since their journey began and in that time the Prince and his Knight haven't said one word to each other.  
  
Eventually, Prince Tomas averts his gaze from the fields. Presumably he has seen all of them that he wishes to see. He stretches his back, rolling up his shoulders for a moment, then drops them with a huff and turns to study his companion instead.  
  
If Sir Willem notices that he is now the focus of Tomas' attention, he doesn't show it.  
  
After ten minutes of this scrutiny, one corner of Tomas' mouth crawls upwards and it stays that way until he turns away and schools it back down.  
  
"Who," pronounces Tomas, "are you?"  
  
Willem turns to him. With a puzzled frown, Willem looks across to the ground in front of them then back to Tomas at his side. The frown deepens. "I am Willem de Witberg, my Lord. The new Knight of the Third Chamber. We were introduced this morni..."  
  
"Phsaw!" Tomas scrunches up his nose and shakes his head as if he's just tasted bad milk. "I know _that_." He looks Willem in the eye. "I mean who _are_ you? Where are you from? What do you do? Who _are_ you?" He looks down to Willem's boots then up to his hat. "I can't say I've ever seen you before, so God knows why you, of all people, are here now."  
  
Willem clears his throat. "I have been rewarded by King Johan, my Lord; I thought you knew." He looks at the road ahead of them. "Your father granted me this position for my services in the war. With my troops, my Lord, I was the one that took the castle at Oostveen."  
  
"Yes, fine." Tomas tosses his head. "You can spare me the details." He stares at Willem some more. "So this is your fine reward, is it? To be exiled for the rest of your days to some insignificant country that no-one cares about?"  
  
"The war lasted for two years, my Lord," says Willem. "Merran must be fairly worthy if it can defend itself for that long."  
  
Tomas huffs.  
  
"Besides," Willem doffs his hat to Tomas, "my reward isn't exile; it's to serve a prince. Surely that is a fine thing?"  
  
For the briefest of moments, Tomas' cheeks colour, but his faint smile is soon replaced by a pout. "Be that as it may, being placed in my service is as good as exile." He throws his head back and groans. "I fail to see why I must be the one to seal the peace when it was Jan who did all the fighting. Why not relegate him to Merran instead?"  
  
"Your brother is already betrothed, my Lord. Or would you rather he had two wives?"  
  
"He is betrothed but not married _yet_." Tomas shakes out his shoulders. "Princess Marie is only ten years old; she will hardly care if Jan marries another woman instead. And he should. I would be only too happy to wed Princess Marie in his place. In fact the wait would do me well; I'm barely old enough to be married myself."  
  
"On the contrary, I would say that nineteen years old is high time for a prince to be married." Willem looks at Tomas. Even the smallest of smiles here would put Willem in hot water with the Prince, so it is lucky for them both that Willem's expression is nothing but serious.  
  
"Ugh," says Tomas. "Don't let's talk of it now. Doubtless I'll have to dwell on it enough once we reach St Felipe."  
  
And so they don't talk of it. Indeed, they don't talk of anything for the next few hours until at last they reach a small village and stop to dine at the local inn.  
  
***  
  
Tomas takes his time over his mutton. He stares at Willem across the table.  
  
"I still fail to see," says Tomas, "why my father has appointed _you_ when I have never met you before.  
  
"We have met before, my Lord." Willem tears his bread apart with his hands. "Once. I imagine you must have been too young to remember it."  
  
"And where have you been all this time, then?" Tomas narrows his eyes. "You are a nobleman, are you not? For a man to come to court once in nineteen years is very lax."  
  
"My estate is in the north, my Lord. The winters have been bad and before that my father was ill for many years."  
  
"I see." Tomas fidgets with one of his rings on his fingers. "It is still lax, but at least it explains your lack of refinement."  
  
Willem smiles to himself. "My apologies." His eyes meet Tomas'. "But at the same time I doubt it is possible for anyone to be as fashionable as yourself."  
  
"Hm," says Tomas. "I suppose not." And with a sniff he returns to his meal.  
  
***  
  
When they set out again it is just after noon. They travel through the narrow streets of the village, hooves and boots alike echoing over the hard dirt. Their party is large enough that while the mounted guards are entering the wooded lane on the far outskirts of the village, the final few retainers are still filing out of the stables at the inn.  
  
Tomas looks up as his horse passes under the trees. The sunlight filters brightly through the branches above, appearing to make the feather in his hat dance even more than usual. Willem watches it for a moment but turns away when Tomas looks back down.  
  
"I do so hate travelling," exclaims Tomas.  
  
Stoically, Willem says nothing.  
  
Tomas huffs to himself and shifts the reins in his hands. It's not until they pass out from underneath the trees and back into the open that he glances briefly at Willem and speaks again, "Do you know much of Merran?"  
  
Willem looks over at Tomas. The Prince stares ahead with distant eyes, his cheeks pale.  
  
"I know a little," says Willem. "In the war, I spent my time on the borderlands; they are not too different to Isseland there."  
  
"No," says Tomas. "I suppose they wouldn't be." After a second, he bites his lip.  
  
"And my mother was from Merran," says Willem. In a field off to their left, a pheasant croaks.  
  
Tomas turns to Willem, the pallor in his cheeks lessening. "Was she?"  
  
"Her family estate was not too far from St Felipe. She used to describe it to me when I was young." Willem smiles a little. "So much so that I felt I had almost visited the city myself."  
  
"What is it like, then?" asks Tomas.  
  
"Steep, apparently." Willem looks up into the sky. "The palace is at the top of a valley with the cathedral, but most of the people live down by the river. My mother used to say it was very beautiful."  
  
"I see." Tomas looks down at his hands.  
  
Willem turns and watches Tomas for a few moments. "I imagine this is why the King appointed me to accompany you," says Willem. "And I will help. I understand some of the language. If you need to know anything, I will tell you all I can."  
  
Tomas presses his lips together and blinks his eyes. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and looks up. "And Princess Catarina?" he asks. "Do you know anything of her?"  
  
"I'm afraid not, my Lord." Willem shakes his head. "I've heard tell she's very pretty though."  
  
"I've seen her portrait," says Tomas. "It's best to have a pretty wife, isn't it?"  
  
"It is." Willem nods. "Especially if she is to inherit her father's kingdom. I imagine you will make many a man jealous on your wedding day."  
  
A smile flickers over Tomas' lips. "I suppose they will be," he says. "That is something, at least."  
  
***  
  
That evening, before the sun begins to set, they stop to rest at the house of the Count of Varkenheim.  
  
If you have ever ventured this way yourself you will know that the Count is an old man and a poor one. Most of his wealth was lost by his father fifty years ago, and what little there had been left was spent on the quartering of troops during the war. The house itself would be perfectly comfortable if this were a century ago, but as it stands now it is painfully old fashioned. The walls are half-timbered and bow out in odd places; the glass in the windows is small and stained, where it exists at all; and the oak panelling in the open hall is so dark as to make seeing anything a difficulty without a large fire burning in the hearth.  
  
The Count, perhaps on account of his age, suffers from the gout. He bids Tomas welcome, directs him towards a very meagre supper, and promptly retires to bed.  
  
Tomas and Willem do not stay up much later than their host. Supper, with its few scraps of cold meat, does not last long, and the hall has a dull, depressing quality. With a sigh, Tomas pushes back his chair and declares that he has had more than enough for one night.  
  
Willem fetches up Tomas' manservant and follows Tomas up the stairs to his chamber. The room is as dark as the hall, but there is a fire burning in the hearth as well as several candles about the walls. The bed is old, but it at least holds a feather mattress.  
  
It being Willem's first day as the Knight of the Third Chamber, there is a tension in the air with regards to his suitability for the post. As a credit to Willem, he deports himself well, directing the manservant soberly as he undresses the Prince.  
  
The fire crackles as Tomas' wig is removed and handed to Willem.  
  
"I do know, you know," says Tomas. "I know why my father has really appointed you."  
  
"Yes, my Lord?" Willem puts the wig to one side and waits as the manservant removes Tomas' boots.  
  
Tomas looks at Willem and puffs out his chest. "You are old," says Tomas.  
  
"I am only 34, my Lord," replies Willem.  
  
"You are _old_ ," repeats Tomas. "All of my retainers at court are my age or younger, whereas you are almost old enough to be my father."  
  
Willem bows his head. "Perhaps it is in recognition of your growing maturity, my Lord."  
  
Tomas scoffs and holds out his arms as the manservant removes his waistcoat. "You're wrong, Willem. You are old because my father fears to leave me with anyone my own age; he knows that they are deferent enough to do as I say."  
  
Willem raises his eyebrows as he folds the waistcoat. "You believe that I cannot follow orders?"  
  
"My father believes it." Tomas scowls at Willem, then sighs as he steps out of his breeches. "I know what he thinks: he worries that I won't go through with the wedding." Tomas looks Willem in the eye. "He is doing all he can to make sure I do as I'm told."  
  
"I'm certain the King has every confidence in you to do your duty," says Willem diplomatically.  
  
Tomas merely wrinkles his nose. Now down to his shirt, he climbs into bed and calls for the manservant to draw the bed-curtains.  
  
Taking his cue, Willem bows and leaves.  
  
Curling onto his side in bed, Tomas stares at the closed curtains and presses his lips together.  
  
***  
  
Once the manservant has undressed Willem as well and left him for the night, Willem climbs into his own bed. His room is smaller than Tomas' but just as dark. The fire in the hearth has faded down to embers and they cast odd shadows about the bulging walls.  
  
Unfortunately for Willem, the bed is not made out of feathers but of straw, and the ropes under the mattress are loose enough that it sags in the middle. Willem might not realise it but this is the Count's third-best bed. Aside from the Count himself, everyone else must sleep on the floor.  
  
Sitting on the bed, Willem runs a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face, and then rubs at his back through his shirt. Just as he is reaching up to draw his heavy bed-curtains, the door to the room opens.  
  
Through the door steps Tomas, holding a candle.  
  
Eyes widening in surprise, Willem stands as Tomas shuts the door behind him.  
  
"My Lord..."  
  
"Willem." With his cropped hair and his wide shirt hanging loose from his shoulders, Tomas' youth is obvious. The candle trembles ever so slightly in his hand, throwing his fluttering silhouette across the wall. "You said you would help me," says Tomas. "You said you'd give me advice if I needed it."  
  
Willem clears his throat. "I did."  
  
"Well, then." Tomas draws himself up to his full height, which isn't very tall. "I need some advice."  
  
"If there's any way I can help, my Lord..."  
  
"I need some advice," Tomas raises his head, his lips thinning, "on what to do on my wedding night."  
  
"Ah." Willem falls silent.  
  
Defiantly, Tomas meets his gaze. The shadows around the room flutter some more.  
  
Eventually, Willem says, "You realise I have never been married myself?"  
  
Tomas thrusts out his chin. "But you are a man of the world, are you not?"  
  
"I am," concedes Willem.  
  
"Then you will do," says Tomas. "I am," he glances at the floor, "inexperienced."  
  
Willem is silent for a moment and then breathes out. "Well, then." He smiles for the first time since Tomas entered. The room is sparse enough that it contains only the bed and a closet. It is to the former that Willem gestures. "Would you like to sit down?"  
  
"Yes." Tomas sets his candle on the floor and makes his way to the bed. He sits down on the side of the mattress with one foot up underneath him; this has the consequence of drawing up his shirt to expose part of his thigh. Tomas looks up at Willem. "Sit next to me."  
  
Willem does so. "Now," he asks, "what do you wish to know?"  
  
In the darkness of the room, Tomas' cheeks are darker still. "I believe I would learn best with a practical demonstration," he says.  
  
"Oh." Willem shifts where he sits. "Is that so?"  
  
Tomas' breath shakes ever so slightly. "What would I do first?"  
  
"Well." Willem looks down at the hem of Tomas' shirt. "Your new wife will appreciate it if you are tender, my Lord."  
  
"Tender?" Tomas moves closer slightly. "How so?"  
  
"First," says Willem. He wets his lips. "First you would begin by kissing her."  
  
"A kiss," Tomas breathes the word. He looks Willem in the eye. "Show me."  
  
Willem does as he is bid. Tomas' face isn't the only one that's dark as Willem leans forward, closes his eyes, and presses a kiss to the Prince's lips.  
  
It is indeed tender, just the slightest brush of lips before they part again. Willem breathes out and Tomas' hand clenches against his own thigh. Then Tomas' eyes open, briefly, and he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. His cheeks are darker still when he leans forward and kisses Willem for a second time.  
  
Willem shudders as he is pressed back against the bolster. No brief kiss, this. Tomas crawls forwards, hands now clenching in Willem's shirt. For all his declaration of inexperience, Tomas' kisses display a mastery that is hardly innocent.  
  
They break apart again, lips lingering against the corners of mouths, breath heavy in the air.  
  
Willem swallows. "Do you see, my Lord?"  
  
"Yes." Tomas' gaze rests at the curve of Willem's jaw. "Yes I do."  
  
Willem swallows again. "And, of course," he says, "there are other ways of being tender."  
  
Tomas lowers his eyes. "What other ways?"  
  
"Be gentle." Willem straightens himself against the bolster. "Caress her. There are some places where a gentle touch will soothe." He smoothes his thumb over Tomas' knuckles. "Her hands, for instance." The thumb rides higher. "Her wrists."  
  
Tomas' breath catches. He watches as Willem lowers his head.  
  
"Her throat." Willem presses a kiss up under Tomas' jaw then down to the junction between neck and shoulder.  
  
"Ah." Tomas swallows. "Show me that again."  
  
And so Willem repeats his kisses. Above him, Tomas shudders.  
  
Raising his head, Willem runs a hand down Tomas' side to his hip. "Her waist."  
  
Tomas bites his lip and exhales through his nose. "Let me try it now," he says.  
  
"Very well." Willem sits back and allows Tomas to take up his hand and mouth at his fingertips. Then Tomas leans forwards and presses a kiss between Willem's collar bones.  
  
Willem breathes in as Tomas runs a line of kisses, moist, up to Willem's jaw.  
  
"Her throat," murmurs Tomas. "Her waist." He leans down with his weight on his arms and, lips trembling, kisses at Willem's waist through the fabric of his shirt.  
  
Willem gasps at that. "Yes," he says, fingers clenching in the mattress. "You learn very well."  
  
"I'm glad." Tomas smiles and sits up, one hand reaching out to trace the dampness of his kiss on the linen.  
  
Willem swallows thickly and smoothes a palm over the warmth of Tomas' knee. "But you must..." says Willem. "A husband must ensure that he is ready before he can do his duty."  
  
Tomas has covered the hand at his knee with his own; he drags it up his thigh a little. "Ready, Willem?"  
  
"Mm," Willem hums. "Only when you are thick," he moistens his lips, "and swollen. Then you will be ready." His thumb is dragged up and under the hem of Tomas' shirt. "Then you will be fit for your task."  
  
Tomas' lips part. In the next instant he has dropped Willem's hand and has caught up the hem of his own shirt, lifting it to the level of his chest. Underneath, his cock is dark and heavy, straining up into the air. "Like this?" Tomas' voice barely reaches above a whisper. "Do you think I am ready enough?"  
  
Willem is silent for a long time. Finally, he stretches out a hand and asks, "May I?"  
  
"Yes." Tomas nods, biting his lip. He leans forward, up on his knees, one hand steadying himself against Willem's shoulder. Beneath his rumpled shirt, Tomas' chest heaves.  
  
Willem's hand reaches out gently, cupping the length of Tomas' cock and letting it rest in his palm.  
  
They both make a noise.  
  
Then Willem turns his hand, curls his fingers around the dark flesh, and Tomas' breath hitches as Willem begins to stroke.  
  
"Yes." Willem's fingers tremble slightly. He brings his other hand up to his mouth and, wetting the pad of his thumb, reaches down and runs it, shining, over the swollen head. Tomas' shoulders jump upwards. "Yes," says Willem, smiling. "I think you are quite ready."  
  
"Good." Tomas pants. He drags a hand over his brow, eyes half-closed as the strokes of Willem's hand continue. "But I'm not entirely sure." He glances at Willem. "May I see yours? To compare?"  
  
Willem doesn't stop the movement of his hands. He takes a breath and looks Tomas in the eye. "You may."  
  
Pressing his lips together, Tomas reaches down and, in a flurry of linen, tugs up fistfuls of Willem's shirt until Willem's cock lies exposed to the air.  
  
There, standing proud from his hips, Willem is just as hard as Tomas, thick and full and a dark pink.  
  
Tomas doesn't wait; he reaches down greedily, smothering Willem's cock with his hand and stroking upwards. After moment, because Willem's hands have tightened in response, Tomas presses his face into Willem's shoulder and shudders.  
  
"Oh," gasps Willem, "Tomas."  
  
The smile that Tomas gives Willem's breastbone is loose and open-mouthed. Then he straightens suddenly and closes what little distance there is between them so that he is all but sitting in Willem's lap. Willem looks up, Tomas presses forward, and their mouths meet in a clash of tongues and saliva.  
  
Throughout the kiss, they keep stroking each other. Willem moves his hand with a steady surety, fingers closing over the head and splaying out down the shaft. Tomas' strokes, meanwhile, are quick and delicate, and have a finesse about them which, like his kisses, suggests that he is hardly a stranger to such situations.  
  
Willem breaks the kiss with a gasp, his head falling back to expose his throat. "Oh," he says.  
  
"What now?" asks Tomas. He shudders as Willem's free hand runs up over his hip. "What must a husband do now?"  
  
"Now?" repeats Willem. He licks his lips and lifts his head to look at Tomas.  
  
"Yes," says Tomas. "Is it now that the husband must breach his wife?" He presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of Willem's mouth. "Breach me, Willem."  
  
Willem's breath leaves him in a rush, his hand clenching around Tomas' cock. Tomas gasps and hangs his head.  
  
After a moment, Willem protests, "But I don't have anything to ease the way."  
  
In response, Tomas lifts a hand to his mouth, spits a copious amount of saliva onto it and smoothes it up the length of Willem's cock.  
  
Willem's stomach curls inwards and he takes a deep breath. "My Lord," he frowns at Tomas, "that won't be enough for you."  
  
Tomas is busy suckling on his fingers and then reaching back to insert them into his anus. His other hand has left Willem's cock and rests on Willem's shoulder for balance. "There will be no problem," pants Tomas. "This way will be fine."  
  
Willem frowns further. "But, my Lord..."  
  
"This way will be _fine_ ," repeats Tomas. He gives Willem a haughty look, or at least, a look as haughty as one can make it while one is fingering oneself. "I know my own body, Willem. This way has been fine before and it will be fine now." He removes his fingers from his anus and then uses his other hand to smooth yet more saliva along Willem's cock. "Now, breach me, Willem."  
  
This time, Willem doesn't protest. Instead he steadies his hands on Tomas' hips and watches, wide eyed, as Tomas bites his lip, positions himself, and sinks down upon him.  
  
"Oh, God," breathes Willem.  
  
Tomas hums and stills once he is fully seated, his fingers clenching in Willem's shirt.  
  
A draught catches the flame of the candle and, for a moment, their shadows spiral across the walls.  
  
Finally Tomas rocks himself, just slightly, up and then back down. Lips quirking, he looks up at Willem.  
  
Willem returns the smile and they grin at each other like co-conspirators. Then Willem spits on his own hand, begins to stroke Tomas' cock once more, and the smiles are lost to panting breaths and urgent, clenching muscles.  
  
Tomas' mouth hangs open as he rocks his hips and works himself upon Willem's cock. His brow shines with exertion. Willem is making low noises in his throat, his hips rolling up to meet Tomas'.  
  
The frame of the bed creaks.  
  
It can hardly be a minute or so later that Willem's hands shake, the tendons in his wrists straining, and he spills himself inside the Prince.  
  
Tomas laughs breathlessly. He presses a kiss to Willem's slack lips and takes Willem's hands in his own, ensuring that they don't falter in their strokes upon his cock.  
  
Swallowing, Willem sets himself to the task. His face is flushed red down to the neck of his shirt but he twists his fingers with a skill that has Tomas scrunching up his nose, his open mouth dragging in desperate breaths.  
  
Shortly, as Willem softens further, Tomas rises up off of him. Instead, Tomas leans against Willem's shoulder and presses two fingers inside himself once more.  
  
It is like that, Willem's hands on his cock and his own fingers in his anus, that Tomas finds his own release. His seed spatters over Willem's chest, dampening spots on his shirt and seeping down over the hemline to his stomach.  
  
With a heavy exhale, Tomas collapses onto the mattress and rolls onto his side.  
  
Willem watches him, chest still heaving. After a moment, Willem asks, "Was that enough, my Lord? Do you feel prepared for your wedding night now?"  
  
"Yes," Tomas sits up. "Thank you, Willem." Then, limbs trembling more than a little, he rises from the bed with exaggerated care, straightens his shirt, and collects his candle from the floor. "Goodnight, Willem. I shall retire to my room." With that, he stumbles out through the door, shutting it behind him.  
  
It is a long moment before, with a huff of breath, Willem relaxes his shoulders and puts his face in his hands.  
  
Beneath those hands he is smiling.  
  
***  
  
The next morning, as Willem oversees Tomas' toilet, there is no mention of what happened during the night. There is, however, an ease between them that wasn't there before, and they both share a smile over the manservant's head as he pulls on Tomas' boots.  
  
Breakfast is as short and as disappointing as supper had been the night before. The Count, leaning on his cane, finally makes an appearance just as they are preparing to depart.  
  
His goodbyes are brief.  
  
***  
  
On the road once more, the air is fresh but not unpleasantly so. However, as we all know, the second day's journey is never as easy as the first.  
  
The bells on Tomas' reins jingle as he shifts them to one hand. "I would like riding a lot more if it weren't so painful," he complains, rubbing at the base of his spine.  
  
Willem turns to him with raised eyebrows but Tomas pays him no heed. It would appear that, for the moment, Tomas is talking about his horse.  
  
Still, they fall into an easy conversation after that and the time passes quickly as the fields around them start to grow steeper and flecked with stone.  
  
***  
  
After leaving the village in which they stop for dinner, the chain of hills in front of them grows more prominent; a hint of the jagged terrain of Merran to come.  
  
It is not the hills, however, that the party notice first. Instead, it is the state of the country around them. More than once they pass a field that has been churned up and half-burned to a crisp. Increasingly, farmhouses at the side of the road are empty and gutted, and barns are only half standing, the heavy doors falling off their hinges. Most members of the retinue regard the land around them with solemn expressions and frowning eyes. Only the asses pulling the carts appear indifferent.  
  
Tomas wrinkles his nose and twirls his fingers in the ends of his curled hair. "Are we drawing close to Merran?" he asks. "I knew the country was poor but I hadn't expected it to be so ugly. Why won't they fix their buildings?"  
  
Willem looks at him. "Likely because no-one lives here anymore, my Lord."  
  
"Why not?" Tomas looks about with a frown. "Where have they gone?"  
  
"They have been killed," says Willem. "Or they have run away." He chews on the inside of his cheek.  
  
Tomas frowns harder.  
  
"Because of the war," clarifies Willem.  
  
"Oh," says Tomas. He looks about him with renewed interest. "Oh, of course. I suppose that would be the case."  
  
With a sniff, Willem turns his head back to the road.  
  
Tomas, curiosity satisfied, is silent for a while. He passes his time staring at the burnt crops as they pass. Just at the entrance to one barn, there lie the blackened bones of a pig.  
  
The next village they come to is almost as desolate as the countryside that surrounds it. A couple of children play with a dog on the street but the inn lies empty. On the outskirts of the village, as they leave it, the ground is open and rucked up into a series of large, defensive mounds. Scraps of cloth and other detritus lie here and there.  
  
Tomas' lips twitch. "What was it like?" he asks.  
  
Willem turns to him. "What was what like, my Lord?"  
  
Tomas huffs. "The war, of course. What was it like?"  
  
Willem gives him a steady look. "You have never been on a battlefield?"  
  
Tomas manages to appear both affronted and disgusted at the same time. "Never," he exclaims. "Jan always does enough of that for the both of us."  
  
"Ah," says Willem. He appears to be thinking as his horse walks on a few paces. Eventually he says, "War is not easy, my Lord."  
  
"I didn't mean to say that it was." Tomas straightens his back. "I was just..." He tosses his head. "Did you kill very many people?"  
  
A grim smile curls over Willem's lips. "By myself, you mean? Or through leading my troops?"  
  
"Both," says Tomas.  
  
"I'm afraid," sighs Willem, "that I was not keeping count. But they say that two hundred were lost when Oostveen was taken." He shakes his head. "And then there were my other campaigns on top of that."  
  
Tomas gasps. "Two hundred in that alone? No wonder my father wanted to reward you. You have done Isseland proud."  
  
Willem's smile is a wry one. "Perhaps."  
  
"Do you miss it?" asks Tomas. "The glory of the battlefield?"  
  
"No, I don't think I do." Willem looks down at the pommel of his saddle. "I rather enjoy having good food and a comfortable mattress to sleep on."  
  
"Well," declares Tomas. "I, for one, am sorry that I was not able to see you in your armour. Doubtless it becomes you very well."  
  
Willem smirks at him. "And my travelling clothes do not; is that what you are saying?"  
  
"No, that is not what I mean at all." Tomas thrusts out his chin. "But as you mention it, it does serve for the Knight of the Third Chamber to be more courtly." He sniffs. "I will send for my tailor once we reach St Felipe."  
  
***  
  
Later that day, they cross the border into Merran, although the ravaged appearance of the countryside changes very little. As they are no longer able to rely on the nobility of Isseland to provide their accommodation, they stop to spend the night in an inn instead.  
  
This is not, however, as much of a hardship as it seems, because on all accounts save his name, the innkeeper is a far better host than the old Count of Varkenheim.  
  
After a hearty supper in the hall, Tomas and Willem head upstairs to undress.  
  
This time, Tomas' room is a large one, with a roaring fire and a generously deep bed. And once again, Willem oversees Tomas' undressing with a sober efficiency.  
  
It is as the manservant is removing the last of Tomas' stockings that Tomas waves a hand at Willem. "Stay here for a moment. I want to talk to you."  
  
"As you wish," says Willem.  
  
Tomas huffs. " _Alone_." He shoos a hand at the manservant. "Be off. You can wait for Willem in his room; he won't be long."  
  
The manservant bows and takes his leave.  
  
"Now." Tomas puffs out his chest. "You will come here to _my_ room tonight, Willem. There's no way I'm wandering the halls of _an inn_ in only my shirtsleeves."  
  
A smile flickers over Willem's lips. "Is that not the done thing, my Lord?"  
  
"No," says Tomas, primly, "it is not."  
  
***  
  
Not half an hour later, Tomas, looking rather bored, is lying in bed with his hands clasped behind his head. It is then that Willem, dressed in only his shirt, returns to Tomas' bedchamber.  
  
Tomas sits up. "You took long enough," he declares.  
  
"My apologies." Willem sets his candle down on a dresser at the side of the room. "I had to wait until the way was empty." But the grin he gives Tomas suggests that he is not sorry in the slightest.  
  
Tomas sniffs, but there is an answering smile on his own lips.  
  
"So," says Willem, looking about the room. "Why did you ask me here? Am I to help you prepare further for your wedding night?"  
  
Tomas tuts and waves a hand. "No no no. I don't have time for all that." He sits up straighter and looks Willem in the eye. "Take off your shirt. I wish to see you."  
  
One side of Willem's mouth curls upwards. He does as he is told, however, grabbing hold of the bottom of his shirt and tugging it up over his head. Pulling it from his arms, he drops it into a heap on the floor.  
  
Exposed, it is possible to see the strength in Willem's body. He is not a retiring landowner but an active man, used to days on horseback and the wielding of heavy arms; this is reflected in the shape of him, from a broad chest to sinewed forearms, dark from time spent in the sun. A long scar straggles from his right shoulder to his right elbow, which goes some way to explaining why he favours his left hand on many occasions.  
  
Tomas, from where he sits on the bed, watches with lowered eyes. "Come here," he demands.  
  
Willem does so, the dimpling of his skin disappearing in the process, for the bed is close to the fire and the room is not warm.  
  
When Willem sits on the side of the bed, Tomas crawls out from beneath the bedclothes. He runs the palms of his hands over Willem's skin, his shoulders, his stomach, with the appraising air of someone inspecting new livestock for quality.  
  
It is almost surprising that Tomas doesn't force open Willem's mouth to check his teeth.  
  
"Sit back," says Tomas, and he pushes and ushers Willem up to the head of the bed until Willem is sat back against the bolster. Once there, they kiss, briefly, and Tomas pulls back, licking his lips.  
  
Willem's smile is a relaxed one. "And are you going to remove your shirt as well?"  
  
Tomas hums as if he had not even considered it. "If you wish," he says, and after a moment he has divested himself of the shirt and tossed it to one side.  
  
Unlike Willem, Tomas' skin has a pallor appropriate to his station. His limbs are long, lean and unblemished with youth. His cock, where it lies, is already hard.  
  
Willem's cock stiffens slightly in response.  
  
Tomas doesn't wait. Instead he kisses Willem again; briefly on Willem's lips and then lower, mouthing at his neck and his shoulders.  
  
Willem's breath shudders out of his chest.  
  
Tomas moves lower; he takes his time over Willem's collarbones and then leans down to run his tongue across Willem's nipples. All the while, Tomas hums to himself, makes low noises in his throat and seems to pay Willem's reactions as little heed as if he weren't there at all.  
  
After coming down to Willem's stomach and running his tongue in a broad, wet swipe from Willem's crotch to his navel, Tomas sits back on his knees and clutches both of his hands around one of Willem's thighs, massaging it and pressing his thumbs into the muscle.  
  
Willem's cock now stands proud. He wets his lips and watches as Tomas moves across and runs his hands up Willem's other thigh.  
  
When Tomas finally turns his attention to Willem's cock, it is like a craftsman looking over a piece of work. He sweeps a hand over Willem's hip, head tilted, and positions Willem's testicles in a way that is apparently more pleasing to him.  
  
Willem, throughout this attention, has been pulling up the sheets in his hands. His throat bobs as he swallows.  
  
Then, without saying a word or giving the slightest warning, Tomas lowers his head and takes Willem's cock into his mouth. The moan that Tomas gives out while doing so is loud enough that it echoes around the room.  
  
Willem, meanwhile, has hidden his mouth with trembling hands. "Ah! Tomas," he groans, his brows drawing up in pleasure.  
  
One of Tomas' hands clasps around the base of Willem's cock, while the other fists in the bedclothes. He takes his time with his mouth, at some points taking Willem in fully and bobbing his head, and at others using only his tongue or letting his lips rest against the crown in a messy kiss. Tomas' face, whenever it emerges from between Willem's thighs, is flushed a blotchy red, sweat glistening on his brow.  
  
As Tomas continues, Willem slips lower and raises a knee, widening the room between his legs in which Tomas has to manoeuvre.  
  
Tomas, for his own part, is making noises more and more frequently, groaning at the back of his throat and sucking in ragged breaths through his nose.  
  
This continues for only a short time more until Tomas, movements desperate, pushes his free hand underneath him and begins to stroke his own cock at a hurried pace.  
  
"Tomas." Willem's chest heaves. He runs a hand over Tomas' scalp and swallows. "Tomas, it is my turn. Let me."  
  
With a frown, Tomas stops what he is doing and looks up. "What?"  
  
"Let me taste you," says Willem.  
  
"Oh." If anything, Tomas' cheeks grow darker. "Very well," he says, and shifts so that, instead of facing the head of the bed, he is facing the foot of it, his head still near Willem's hips and one of his knees reaching over to straddle Willem's face.  
  
Willem, however, seems to have other ideas. He pushes Tomas' knees back together and then gently pushes at Tomas' hip until Tomas ends up lying on his side. That done, Willem rolls over onto his side as well, and leans forwards to take Tomas' erect cock into his mouth.  
  
Tomas lets out a ragged breath at that and his chin curls down to touch his chest, a hand clenching in Willem's thigh hard enough that the skin turns white beneath his fingers.  
  
Although it is impossible for Tomas to see it, Willem's eyes crinkle in a smile.  
  
After a moment or so, Tomas finds his coordination once more and he too leans forward, sliding his lips back over the slick length of Willem's cock.  
  
The noises that Tomas had been making before were paltry in comparison to the noise he makes now. He whimpers around Willem's cock, more than once having to pull back completely and lay his cheek on the bedcovers as he scrunches up his eyes and, moaning, gives out a series of panting breaths.  
  
Willem is making less noise, but that doesn't mean that he is unaffected, and the flush on his face runs down to the top of his chest as he bobs his head, his fingers twisting slickly around the base of Tomas' cock all the while.  
  
It is, however, Tomas who reaches the end first. He has let Willem's cock slip out of his mouth completely and appears barely able to keep his hips from rocking as he bites his lip and jerkily empties himself against Willem's tongue.  
  
Messily, Willem keeps on sucking until Tomas runs dry, and then he leans over the side of the bed with little ceremony and spits Tomas' seed into the chamber pot.  
  
Tomas, now in control a little more, continues at his task. With as much of Willem's length in his mouth as he can manage, he bobs his head at a great speed, fingers straining where they lie on Willem's hips.  
  
Willem's mouth draws open and he pants. Without even seeming to know that he is doing it, he rolls over onto his back and widens his legs. Tomas follows him smoothly, keeping to his task and flicking glances up at Willem's face as he does so.  
  
It is not for Willem to know that he is being watched. He throws a forearm across his eyes, his chest shuddering and his fingers clenching uselessly at his side.  
  
With the speed at which Tomas attends to him, it is only a short while longer before Willem has scrunched up his face and is ejaculating into Tomas' mouth.  
  
Tomas doesn't wait. As soon as Willem finishes, Tomas crawls up the bed and kisses him, pressing his white-coated tongue past Willem's lips.  
  
Beneath him, Willem groans.  
  
The kiss lasts for a long time, with Willem swallowing every now and then. Eventually, they pull apart, breathing heavily.  
  
With a smile, Tomas tucks a strand of hair behind Willem's ear.  
  
"That," declares Willem, "was very pleasant."  
  
"Which part?" asks Tomas.  
  
Willem grins at him. "Every part."  
  
Tomas grins in return, then he pauses and bites his lip. After a moment, he sits back and runs a hand through his hair. "You need to go back to your own room, Willem."  
  
With a nod, Willem sits up and gives Tomas a brief kiss. Then, collecting his shirt from the floor, tugging it over his head, and retrieving his candle, he does as he is told.  
  
***  
  
Throughout the next morning's journey, the desolation of the land around them continues. This bleak wasteland appears to affect the whole retinue, for they are all quiet save for a young page or two.  
  
The solemn atmosphere lasts until, finally, they reach a village populous enough to have an inn that will provide them with a meal.  
  
The room in which Willem and Tomas are to dine is small and panelled. Upon entering, instead of seating himself at the table with its array of food, Tomas takes up a chair, turns it to the fire and stretches out on it with a groan. He appears to consider his boots for a second and then removes them and tosses them into a corner of the room.  
  
"Let it be known," says Tomas, "that I never want to travel again."  
  
Willem, sitting at the table, helps himself to a dish of pigeons. "You plan never to return to Isseland, then?"  
  
"Ugh," says Tomas. "You know I do not mean that." He stands and turns his attention to the table. After taking some food for himself, he carries his plate to his chair and sits again. "This whole thing is horrid," he says, mouth curling downwards. "I hate the travelling. I hate that I am to marry someone I have never met before. I hate that I am to, essentially, become a foreigner to my own home."  
  
Willem watches him eat. "But you do see," says Willem, after a moment, "that it is important what you are doing? Without your marriage there would be nothing to ensure the peace between Isseland and Merran."  
  
Tomas swallows and licks his fingers before picking up a piece of bread. "I do not care about the peace. All I am doing is following my father's orders like a doting son."  
  
"You would not mind then," Willem puts down his knife, "if you were to be given a new Knight of the Third Chamber? Because if the war were to start again, I would be called upon to fight."  
  
Tomas turns to him, looking slightly alarmed. "You wouldn't," Tomas says. "I could demand that you stay with me. They will listen to what I say."  
  
"And if I didn't agree to it?" asks Willem.  
  
Tomas stares at him.  
  
After a moment, Tomas huffs. "None of it matters though," he says, waving a hand, "because it will never happen." He turns back to the fire and concentrates on his plate once more. "I will do as I am bid, however grudgingly that may be."  
  
Willem, watching him, purses his lips and says nothing.  
  
***  
  
Once they are both back in the saddle, the countryside around them begins to grow more lush again as they draw farther into Merran and away from the border. The hills around them become more steep, but these hills are dotted with sheep rather than with blackened patches and defensive bulwarks.  
  
As they continue, Tomas grows quieter and quieter until, save for the jingling bells and the steps of his horse, he makes no noise at all.  
  
Eventually, he says, "I do wish that I could marry someone I care for."  
  
"Perhaps," says Willem beside him, "you will grow to care for Princess Catarina."  
  
"No," says Tomas, shaking his head, "I know I will not."  
  
For a while Tomas grows silent again and he watches Willem as they walk along.  
  
"You're not going to leave me to go fight again, are you, Willem?"  
  
Willem throws him a glance. "That would be impossible, my Lord, because the war is over."  
  
"Even if it weren't," says Tomas, "would you stay? I would like it if you did."  
  
Willem looks at him.  
  
When, finally, Willem turns back to the road, he says, "Well, I suppose it wouldn't be hard to grow attached to this fine lifestyle."  
  
Beside him, Tomas smiles.  
  
***  
  
As the day draws on, what was once a mark on the horizon grows larger and larger until the shape of St Felipe becomes quite clear. It is possible to see the rocky outcrops at the top of the valley on which the city sits, with the spire of the cathedral standing proud above the other buildings.  
  
By the time the light is fading, it is even possible to make out the great roof of the palace and the towers at the city walls if you know what you are looking for. The party stops at another inn for the night, but it is clear that only a few more hours of riding will be needed before they reach their journey's end; by the middle of the next day they will have entered the heart of the city.  
  
Tomas is quiet throughout supper, but that night after he has undressed, he asks Willem to return to his room again.  
  
In this inn, the two largest bedchambers sit adjacent to one another, joined by a single door. By this means it is quite easy for Willem, once he is undressed himself, to slip back into the Prince's room.  
  
As with the previous two nights, Willem and Tomas share each other's bodies. However, unlike the previous two nights, Willem does not return to his room when they are done. Instead, the both of them remain in Tomas' bed, sometimes lying in each other's arms and sometimes sharing passionate moments.  
  
***  
  
It is during the last of these passionate moments that we join them. The morning sun is only a grey band on the horizon, but Tomas and Willem have slept and have woken and, on waking, have fallen to thrusting against each other.  
  
Muscles are hard and taut. Fingers clench, straining for purchase against the bed-linen. Tomas rolls his hips against Willem's thigh and presses his knee to Willem's crotch.  
  
Willem's forehead is clammy with sweat. Tomas' open lips tremble as he hangs his head down.  
  
The sound of their breathing fills the air.  
  
"Tomas," gasps Willem. "Tomas. Tomas."  
  
Tomas' lips pull back into what may have been a smile if it weren't so much of a grimace. His brows draw together, his chest heaving, and he spills himself over the warm skin of Willem's thigh.  
  
Willem groans and it is only moments before he is ejaculating too, his mouth falling open and the tendons on his neck standing out.  
  
Together, breathing hard, their eyes meet, and they fall against each other panting.  
  
Tomas swallows and draws Willem's arm around him in an embrace.  
  
They lie like that for a moment as, with a smile, Willem brushes his fingertips beneath Tomas' ear.  
  
"You are dear to me, Willem." Tomas breathes out, then turns his head and presses a kiss to Willem's breastbone. "Very dear."  
  
"Mm." Willem opens his mouth as Tomas leans up to kiss him on the lips.  
  
"Willem," Tomas pulls back, "do you have my jewels? Bring them to me."  
  
With a confused frown, Willem nevertheless pulls himself out of bed and does as he is bid. He opens a cupboard in the corner of the room, pulls out a fine, wooden box, then heads into his own room for a moment and returns with a key.  
  
Sitting on the side of the bed and placing the box on the sheets, Willem fits the key into the lock on the box and opens it.  
  
"Ah." Tomas sits up and bats Willem's hands out of the way as soon as the lid has been lifted. With quick movements, Tomas picks his way through the jewels in the box, looking at a brooch here and passing over a gold chain there. Finally, he picks up a golden ring that is set with a large, green stone.  
  
"Willem," says Tomas, "give me your hand."  
  
Eyes widening, Willem sits back slightly. "You can't mean to give me that, my Lord."  
  
Tomas huffs. "I do mean to, and I will." Then, without waiting, he grabs up Willem's right hand and, after trying the ring on a few fingers, eventually slips it over the knuckle of the smallest. "This," Tomas leans down and kisses the back of Willem's hand, "is a gift from me to you."  
  
Willem stares at him, mouth open. "Thank you."  
  
Tomas' smile is indulgent. He leans up and kisses Willem on the lips, letting it linger and twining their hands together.  
  
Finally, when they break apart, Tomas looks to the window. "It's nearly morning," he says with a sigh. "You should return to your room, Willem."  
  
***  
  
A short while later, and after a brief breakfast in their rooms, Willem is overseeing the manservant as Tomas is being dressed.  
  
"We have nearly reached St Felipe," says Tomas as his wig is settled upon his head and the curls arranged neatly over his shoulders.  
  
"I imagine we will arrive in time for dinner," agrees Willem.  
  
Tomas holds out his arms as the manservant puts on his coat. "I think it would be best," says Tomas, "to discuss what we are to do once we arrive." He brushes down his coat as the manservant steps away.  
  
"If you wish," says Willem. "What were...?"  
  
"This doesn't involve you." Tomas flaps his hand at the manservant. "We're done here. You can go downstairs now."  
  
Willem holds his tongue and watches as the manservant bows and takes his leave.  
  
Once the door has shut behind him, Tomas rushes over and picks up both of Willem's hands in his own.  
  
Tomas' cheeks are pale. "I can't do this, Willem."  
  
"You..."  
  
"I have thought about it," says Tomas. "I can't go to St Felipe and marry Princess Catarina. I can't."  
  
Willem sighs. "My Lord..."  
  
"No. Listen." Tomas squeezes his hands. "I have a plan." He looks Willem in the eye. "We don't have to enter St Felipe at all. You and I can slip away now, together. Just the two of us. If I must, I can forego my entourage and my title. Instead, we'll travel the country posing as... why, I could be a travelling justice and you could be my clerk. After all, what need have we for anything else when we have each other?"  
  
Willem's lips have thinned. "A justice and his clerk?"  
  
"Precisely," says Tomas. "And we won't want to be caught, so we can leave our horses here and buy some new ones at the first town we..."  
  
"You know that would be impossible, my Lord," says Willem, pulling his hands free.  
  
Tomas stares at him. "You think it will be impossible for us to purchase some horses?"  
  
"No. It will be impossible for us to run away," says Willem. "We have already discussed this. You know that your marriage is needed to seal the peace."  
  
"But I can't do it, Willem." Tomas reaches out and clutches at Willem's elbow. "There must be some other way to make peace with Merran."  
  
"While the second Prince of Isseland spurns their heiress?" Willem scoffs. "Something very great would be needed to keep the peace after an insult of that magnitude."  
  
Tomas drops his arms. "But..."  
  
"You are apprehensive, that is all." Willem rests a hand on Tomas' shoulder. "It will be fine."  
  
Tomas pouts. "So you mean to leave me to my fate, then."  
  
"We are not running away, Tomas." Willem leans forward and gives him a brief kiss on the lips. "Now," Willem hands Tomas his gloves, "if we are done, I shall ready the men for us to be on our way."  
  
As Willem leaves the room, Tomas straightens his back and thrusts out his chin. With trembling hands, he pulls on his gloves.  
  
***  
  
A quarter of an hour later, Willem is crossing the courtyard of the inn when he happens to look through an archway to the north. What he sees, as he looks out over the fields, is a figure scrambling up a hill and through into a grove of trees. Atop the figure's head flashes the bright red plume of a hat.  
  
Stopping dead in his tracks, Willem swears.  
  
Dashing into the stables, where the Prince's retinue are busy saddling up their horses, Willem makes for the armed guards. "The Prince is running away!" he calls. "You need to bring him back at once!"  
  
As one, the guards look at him.  
  
"He doesn't intend to go to St Felipe," explains Willem. "If we don't retrieve him, he will try to make his way back to Isseland."  
  
The guards look uncertain. Some shuffle on their feet. It is not in their line of work to disobey a prince, no matter what he may do.  
  
Willem makes a frustrated noise. "Need I remind you," he says, "that you are under orders from King Johan and not from Prince Tomas? Do you know what the King will do to you if this marriage doesn't go ahead?" He points to the stable door. "The Prince has headed into the woods to the north. Get him! Do as I say!"  
  
Understanding at last, the guards hasten into action. With a clanking of metal and the creak of leather, they jump onto their horses and head out.  
  
Willem sucks on his teeth as he watches them go.  
  
***  
  
It is not long before the party of riders returns. One, however, is not seated on his horse; instead, he walks in front of it, leading it by the reins. On the horse's back sits Prince Tomas, holding onto the pommel of the saddle with both hands and scowling furiously. There are twigs sticking out of his wig and a large smear of mud over the elbow of his coat.  
  
Willem meets the riders as they come to a halt in the centre of the courtyard.  
  
From where he sits, Tomas looks down, his nose wrinkling. "Willem."  
  
"My Lord," greets Willem.  
  
"Let me down." Tomas turns to the guard leading his horse. "We're here now, aren't we? Let me down!"  
  
Hesitantly, the guard looks to Willem.  
  
Willem nods. "Do as he says."  
  
With a huff, Tomas takes the guard's hand as it is offered to him and climbs down from the horse. Once Tomas is stood upon the cobbles, the guard holds him by the shoulder.  
  
Tomas glares, first at the guard, then at Willem. "I am to be a prisoner now, am I?" asks Tomas. "This is ridiculous."  
  
"You are being ridiculous," counters Willem. "What do you think you were doing?"  
  
Tomas scoffs. "I think my motives are clear enough to _you_." He tries to shake the guard's hand from his shoulder. "I demand that you let me go."  
  
"Not yet," says Willem. He turns to the guard. "Take his Highness into the inn. I wish to speak to him alone."  
  
***  
  
They enter a small room on the ground floor and, after a signal from Willem, the guards withdraw.  
  
Once the door has shut behind them, Tomas tugs off his hat and his gloves and throws himself into a chair by the fireplace. He folds his arms, raises his head and looks Willem in the eye.  
  
"Go on then," says Tomas. "I suppose you mean to lecture me on my _duty_."  
  
Willem breathes out. "My Lord..."  
  
"If you were kind, Willem, you would let me go."  
  
"And let the war start again?"  
  
"Ugh." Tomas throws his hands into the air. "I have told you, I do not care about peace. Let the war start again if it must."  
  
Willem rounds on him. "Oh, you foolish boy!"  
  
Wide-eyed, Tomas sits back.  
  
"Do you know," Willem paces the floor, "what it is like to watch the dawn rise on a battlefield and know that this day might be your last?" He clenches his jaw. "Have you ever seen a man hit by a musket ball? Have you seen a man run through with a sword? Hm? Do you know what it is like to watch your friends fall in agony by your side?" Willem looks to Tomas. "Do you even know how much money the war has cost your father? How close it has come to ruining him?"  
  
Tomas' face is pale. After a moment he mumbles, "No."  
  
"No," agrees Willem, "you do not." He stops in his stride and exhales.  
  
"Willem," Tomas leans forward in his chair. "Willem, I don't mean to start the war again, but what am I to do? I can't marry Princess Catarina."  
  
Willem looks at him. "I don't see why not."  
  
"I don't love her," says Tomas. His fingers twist around the arm of the chair. "I will never grow to care for her. I know it."  
  
Willem laughs, short and sharp. "What?" he says. "And you think she will love you?" He puts his hands behind his back. "Of course she doesn't; why would she? She has never met you." Willem looks Tomas in the eye. "You are a prince, Tomas. Yours is not to marry for love. Yours is to marry for the benefit of your country. As is hers."  
  
"And I am to accept this?" asks Tomas. "I am to live with her and take her to bed every night even when... And you would be happy for me to..." He presses his lips into a thin line and looks down. After taking a deep breath through his nose, he raises his head and looks at Willem. "You realise I could never love Princess Catarina," he snarls, "because I love _you_."  
  
Willem's next words appear to die on his lips.  
  
For a moment, they stare at one another in silence, then Tomas' gaze falls to the ring with the green stone that sits on Willem's finger.  
  
Willem closes his eyes and Tomas' hands clench into fists on the arms of his chair.  
  
"And you think," says Willem quietly, opening his eyes to look at Tomas, "that I do not return the sentiment. Is that it?"  
  
Tomas turns his head away. "I do not know what I think."  
  
For the first time since they entered the room, Willem's brow softens. He takes a step forwards and crouches down beside the arm of Tomas' chair.  
  
"You would be happy," mutters Tomas, "for me to marry. For me to perform my husband's duty and..." he falls silent.  
  
"I am willing," says Willem, trying to catch Tomas' eye, "for you to do what is necessary."  
  
"At the expense of my happiness," says Tomas. "To be with her and not with you."  
  
Willem gives a small smile. He reaches up and plucks the twigs from Tomas' hair.  
  
Pouting, Tomas turns to look at him.  
  
"Tell me, Tomas," says Willem. "Where exactly do you think I am going to go?"  
  
Tomas opens his mouth.  
  
"How many times," says Willem, "will you be obliged to share Princess Catarina's chamber?" He rests his arms on the armrest. "I can tell you. You will need to share it once to seal your marriage and a few other times to keep up appearances, if you wish. Even the most doting husband doesn't spend every night with his wife."  
  
"Then..." starts Tomas.  
  
"And where will I be?" asks Willem. "You seem to forget that I am your Knight of the Third Chamber, Tomas." He drops the twigs to the floor. "Every day I must attend to you. Whatever you do, I will be there. Whenever you leave the Princess' room, I will be there." He takes up one of Tomas' hands in his own and kisses it. "Whenever you need me, I will be there."  
  
Tomas takes a shaky breath and blinks rapidly. "And this," he says. "This is why you do not mind my getting married, Willem?"  
  
"Precisely." Leaning upwards, Willem kisses him on the lips.  
  
When they pull apart, Tomas huffs but there is a small smile upon his face.  
  
"Now," says Willem. "What do you say? I know that your fears are not just for me. You are leaving your home to go live in a new country; it is normal to be apprehensive." He squeezes Tomas' hand. "But I know that you are up to the task, just as I know that I will do everything in my power to help ease the way."  
  
Tomas takes another shaky breath.  
  
"So," Willem smiles, "do you think you are you ready to leave for St Felipe?"  
  
Tomas scrubs at his eyes with his free hand and sniffs. "You will stay with me, Willem? You promise?"  
  
"Of course I will," says Willem.  
  
"Very well." Tomas bites his lip for a second, then leans forward and kisses Willem again.  
  
After they break apart, Tomas takes a deep breath and raises his chin. "Tell the men to get ready," he orders. "Tell them we will leave for St Felipe as soon as my horse is prepared."  
  
With a nod, Willem leaves to do as he is bid.

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations for this story can be found here: <http://ohveda.tumblr.com/post/51751818097/prince-tomas-of-isseland-1646-1718-consort-of>


End file.
